


241 - Emergencies Rooms & Retelling Stories

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “something about the reader being sick - like a flu or something and Van taking care of her!??” from @tokyyo-narita





	241 - Emergencies Rooms & Retelling Stories

The harsh lights of the emergency room made everything seem sicker than it already was. Conversations were all hushed so people could eavesdrop on triage; trauma is entertaining, after all. The soft moans of pain and silent tears rolling down cheeks were making you feel worse. Van couldn't hold you like you wanted, needed, him to. The plastic armrests of the chairs prevented proper contact. All he could do was kiss the side of your head and rub your back.

Your illness wasn't visible. Your emergency was internal. The risk seemed managed. Therefore, the wait time would be long. As the hours passed you tried to keep yourself occupied by memorising the cast of characters in the room. The child who was sure she had swallowed glass, but was diagnosed with a slight bruise to her tummy. A man asking everyone for cigarette, but each time he asked he used a different slang word for a smoke. It was unclear what his illness was, if any. There was a young guy injured on the worksite. You caught a glimpse of his injured arm; it was twisted, broken, and bone was visible. An elderly woman was coughing up liquid a disconcerting colour, and you were sure she was patient zero for the zombie apocalypse.

When your stomach growled with hunger pains, Van begged you again to let him go and get you something substantial to eat. When you said no again and again, he settled on vending machine sandwiches and overpriced bottled water. It tasted blend and did little to distract you.

"You gotta try to not think 'bout the pain," Van said. You shot him a look.

"Easy for you to fuckin' say,"

"Yeah, sorry, I know, but… Just tryin' to help… What can I do?"

For a couple of seconds, you considered what would help. First and foremost was it being your turn to see the emergency room doctors. Second to that was… like Van said, distraction.

"Tell me a story?" you asked him.

"A story? 'Bout what?"

"I don't know, Van. Anything. That's what you do. Tell stories. Please," you replied, your voice shaking with pain and frustration.

"Ah… 'Kay… What about…" Van looked around the room for inspiration. Any story that was born of the room could only be sad and bad. He looked back to you quickly and anyone could tell he was desperately in love with you by his face alone. "Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, sitting up. "How about I tell you the story of us meeting?"

"What? I was there for it?"

"Yeah, but still. It's a good one, innit? Romantic. Okay, so, you'd been overseas for a year or something-" Van started.

"You're really doing this?" you said more than asked, then let him help you take another sip of water.

"In that year you were gone and I didn't know you, that's when I met Lace. Think Oli introduced us or somethin'. She did photos for some of our shows. She used to talk about you all the fuckin' time. Like, I dead thought you were datin' for a while there. But then she slept with Oli a couple of times, so-"

"What?"

"What?"

"Lacey slept with Oliver?"

"Um… I… don't know?" Van said, realising the mistake he'd made, the secret he'd spilled. "Anyway… She was heaps excited that you were home. Told her to bring you over. I was having Larry, Oli and Jess over."

…

In the year you spent overseas, you were studying abroad. It was a brilliant opportunity, but you were happy to be home and reunited with Lacey, your best friend since pre-school. While you were out being educated and seeing the world, she was getting an education of her own. She's submerged herself in the music scene, cementing her place as one of the U.K.'s most sought-after band photographers. She freelanced for magazines, blogs, bands, and labels. It meant that her new friends were so cool that it was almost unbelievable.

After a week-long sleepover at hers, she announced there was a small get together at her friend's house. 

"Y/N! You know the one! I told you to listen to his band on Spotify!" she cried when you shrugged at his name. What kind of name was Van, anyway?

"I was on an exchange scholarship, Lace. I had to do extra credit all the time or I'd be shipped back here. New music was, like, not a priority."

Her face said it all. Music. Not a priority?! What kind of horrific life were you living?! After breathing through the trauma of your statement, she smiled.

"Right, well, we will fix that, starting with Catfish… or at least Van. Come on, let's get dressed. I think that velvet top I wanna wear is in your room. Grab it for me?"

Another change that had happened in the year gone by was that Lacey now rented a cool apartment in the cool part of town. You'd basically hijacked the second bedroom rather than return to your childhood bedroom at your parents'. You suspected it was her plan all along to have you there when she started to refer to it as yours within hours of being back.

It was easy to see why Lacey loved Van, and Van's best friend Larry. Van had welcomed you into his home, took your coat and positioned you on a big comfy armchair with a glass of red and a kiss on the cheek.

"Welcome, love. Heard loads 'bout you! Lace has been homesick for ya," he said.

"I missed her too. And I've heard about you too…" you replied with a smile and a nod of the head. Lacey gave you a smirk.

Lacey sat between Larry and a girl named Jess on a couch that didn't match the armchair. A boy with beautiful long hair sat on the second armchair. His name was Oliver and was the one to introduce Lacey to Catfish. Van planted himself on a pile of pillows on the carpeted floor.

You listened to the banter; Van and Larry bickered like an old married couple, and Jess' wit was biting. Every time a joke or reference was made that relied on inside knowledge, someone would stop to explain it to you. Clearly, they were all so proud of each other and were excited to have you as an audience for their love, none more than Van.

He bounced on the spot and kept saying, "Oh! Y/N! Wait till ya hear 'bout this!" Each proceeding story was spectacular in its delivery, even if the content matter was far less interesting than Van thought. He was the type of person who found magic in the mundane details of life, the little things. The quality amplified his surface level beauty; his kindness made the blue of his eyes sparkle and his warmth made each of his freckles seem important somehow.

By the time you realised most of your attention was on him, it was too late. He had been slowly shuffling closer and closer to you until he was basically sitting at your feet. Whenever he said something that made you laugh, he looked up and grinned, knocking his shoulder against your leg.

At about nine, the room demanded food.

"Alright, alright. Let's order some pizza, yeah? I'll go get the menu," Van said, standing and all but skipping off. Who still has hard copy pizza menus? Had he not heard of ubereats?

…

A nurse came out through huge double doors. You tried to pretend to not expect to be next, but you did. When someone else's name was called, you slumped into your chair more. I am this chair, you thought to yourself. This chair is me.

Van continued his story from next to you. "I was in love with you from the moment I saw ya. You were just… so warm and beautiful, you know? I'd seen heaps of photos of you. From Lace. Wasn't stalking you or nothing. But then you were like… real… I went all weird and took your coat and… Fuck, yeah. Straight away I was tryna' figure out how to get you to like me. Was good when everyone wanted food, 'cause I had like, moved closer to you. Remember that? Don't even remember doing it though. Just happened. When I stood up, I dead just stood in the kitchen telling myself to stop being a fuckin' weirdo,"

"I do remember that," you said. Your voice was low enough to be a whisper. It made Van frown. He was holding your hand already, but he started to run his thumb across the top of it.

"Have more water," he said, holding the drink bottle out to you.

"I remember thinking how strange it was that you had like, the pizza menu flyer things. You know? Like, instead of using an app or whatever,"

"Mmm… you would think that. So, when I got back with the menu, you had gone to the bathroom, and the others teased me. Lacey was all like 'you're in love with my best friend' and stuff." Van told that part of the story with fondness. It was obviously something he had liked being teased about. He had wanted someone to notice him noticing you. "So, after we ordered the pizza, Lace said I should go find you. That's when I found you with the keyboard."

…

Before Van returned, you stood to find the bathroom. Larry pointed you in the right direction and you wandered down a hallway, passing Van in the kitchen rummaging through a drawer of paper. His back was to you, so you went unnoticed. He was humming as he searched and it made you smile.

Bathroom found, you were unsurprised to find a bowl of tiny hotel soaps, shampoos and conditions. Written on the mirror just above it, in what you hoped wasn't permanent marker, was 'steal me.' It made you wonder how big his band was and how he'd react if they got any bigger. Suddenly, from deep in you was a desire for him to take over the world with his music. To have it all, whatever he wanted.

As you slowly made your way back down the hallway you could hear the happy chatter and laughing of your new friends. Stopping to look at the photos and tour posters hung on the wall, you lost track of time a bit. Then, there was a door ajar that you hadn't noticed before. You couldn't see what the room was, but there were a few sparkling, flashing lights. Like a moth to a flame, you pushed the door open and went inside.

When you turned the light on, you gasped a little. A mini recording studio! Vinyl! Instruments! Quickly, you fell to your knees and switched on a keyboard on the floor. Giggling to yourself, you played Hot Cross Buns. When you finished, clapping from behind you made you jump. Staying on the floor, you twisted to see the door. Van was leaning against the door frame, an amused smirk on his face.

"Please, don't let me stop you. Encore," he said. His voice was calm, calmer than it was in the lounge room. You smiled at him and felt no need to apologise for intruding on his working space. His relaxed stance and amused tone told you it was okay. As you turned back to the keyboard, he came to sit next to you on the floor.

Playing Hot Cross Buns again, Van's gaze switched between your hands on the keys and the concentration on your face. When you finished, you looked at him for praise.

"What's that look?!" you said. Van laughed.

"Well, usually encore isn't the same song again, you know what I mean?"

"It's all I know!"

Van laughed again and nodded. "Right. Well, don't get me wrong, you play the fuck outta Hot Cross Buns, but maybe we should expand ya repertoire?" he said, grabbing a marker from a nearby shelf.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing the notes on it,"

"No! Don't ruin it!" you cried and quickly reached out to take the marker from him. He laughed as he held it up above you, out of reach.

"Y/N! Don't be a menace! It's fine! I write on everythin'. It's fine," he said, gently pushing you back to your place on the floor.

"Like the bathroom mirror?" you asked as you settled and watched him write the letters out. He nodded.

"Did ya steal something?"

"No,"

"Why not?!" he asked, his voice high pitched and offended. You just shook your head and grinned at him. "Alright, let's do this."

As Van's hands moved yours across the keys, as his body moved closer to yours, you could feel the wholesome warmth in you swell. It started to get hot and sticky, and fuck, did it demand to be felt. The hairs on the back of your neck and down your arms stood up. Your mouth felt dry and your spine felt like it was wriggling in your body, making it impossible to sit still.

When you could play the tune he had taught you twice through without his hands ghosting yours, you stood to take a bow. Van clapped and whistled, and your cheeks went red with the attention. The noise in the room settled and it was just you and Van, looking at each other with wry smiles and hungry eyes. You breathed out, shaken and needing a distraction.

…

On mention of the keyboard, your mood perked up immediately. You grinned wide.

"Oh man. When you just fucking appeared in the doorway, I just… I don't know…" you said.

"Did you think I was gonna yell at you for being in there?" Van asked.

"Nah. There was just something about you that, like, made me know it was alright? I don't know. I had liked you already, but after teaching me that song and stuff. Fuck,"

"Had ya, did I?"

You nodded and looked up at him. The joy was short lived; the pain inside stabbed at you again. Van's spare hand moved to your head to gently brush fingers through your hair. The tingling feeling spread from your head, down your spine, and along your arms.

"Want me to ask how long it will be?" he asked in a whisper.

You shook your head. "Won't make it go any faster. Just keep telling me the story. You were up to the part where I fell in love with you."

Van smiled and kissed your forehead.

"Right. You noticed all the records then, and told me about the Van Morrison one, so I took you to my room 'cause that's where the rest were,"

"Yeah. Was weirded out,"

"Probably should've explained it…" Van said with an agreeable smile.

…

"You have a lot of vinyl," you stated and moved to a shelf that seemed custom made for the records 

"Yeah. Been collecting since I was a kid. Some of these are Dad's though," Van replied, standing and following you across the room.

"I used to collect them too, but a couple years back our house burnt down so I lost everything. It was devastating,"

"Jesus. I'm sorry," he said.

"No, no, it's alright. You don't have to like, be sorry or anything. Just super jealous of all this," you said, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. "All of it is pretty replaceable but we had this one live Van Morrison one that my family listened to all the time. Super nostalgic, you know? It was hard to find. Other than that, I can re-collect."

Van smiled like he knew something you didn't. He motioned for you to follow him, which you did. Silently down the hall, he led you into a bedroom. At first you were confused, but then you saw the wall of vinyl.

"The ones in the studio are ones with sounds I like, that I wanna steal, you know? References. These are just the rest," Van explained. He was flicking through records.

"Just the rest," you repeated with a scoff.

Waiting quietly while he located whatever it was he was looking for, you scanned the rest of the room. The bed was huge and the linen was a crisp white, almost like a hotel bed. It sat under bay windows with windowsills wide enough to sit on. It was a sparsely decorated room; the wall of records was the focus. Music was the centre point of Van's life and home.

"Found it!" Van said with a little bounce. In his hands, outstretched to you was the Van Morrison record lost in the fire. Slowly, you took it, a little dazed. "It's yours now, but let's listen," he said. He took the vinyl from the cover and walked it across the room to a player. Still lost in memory, you stared at the cover and felt your eyes pricked with tears as the roaring crowd became audible.

"Wait… what?" you whispered involuntarily.

"Every Christmas me and my dad sit down and watch Van Morrison live on DVD. So, I get it, you know? Kinda cool we both have that, yeah?" He poked your shoulder gently. "I got plenty of stuff. Think this one means more to you than me, so, it's yours."

You started to shake your head. Van laughed and stepped closer, lightly placing hands each side of your face, stopping the movement.

"I can't,"

"Yeah, you can. 'Sides, always make ya think of me. Just my sneaky way of making sure I'm on ya mind. I was named after him, you know," he said, then kissed your forehead.

…

"Y/N!" a voice yelled across the emergency department waiting room. Van stood up immediately. He put your water bottle in your bag and slung it over his body, then held both hands out to you.

The doctor had bright red freckles and brilliant green eyes. Her smile was warm.

"Been waiting for a while, huh? There was some backlog this morning from an accident close by. We're catching up, but you know how it is. I'm actually surprised you weren't moved up the queue. Internal pain is usually a red flag," she said, reading from a clipboard.

"Yeah, she was in the accident! Got here 'bout three hours ago… four… maybe… The guy at triage said she didn't look like she was in pain but it's just 'cause she's tough," Van said. He was protective by nature and had to bite down on his lip to stop himself fighting with the triage nurse. "But I know her and she's not alright."

You hadn't been in the accident. You'd been a few cars behind and had to slam on your breaks. Hitting the steering wheel hard, you'd immediately knew something was wrong. Still, you went to the shops and returned home with everything Van asked for. A couple of hours later, when breathing started to hurt and a bruise had bloomed across your chest, he drove you to emergency. Van explained this to the empathetic doctor.

"Let's see what we can do then. Follow me."

After an hour of prodding, poking, listening, and assessing, the diagnosis was a fractured rib.

"Look, honestly, I wouldn't bother with an x-ray. If there was a serious clean break, we'd know about it. As tough as you are, you wouldn't be this calm. It's likely a fracture and often they don't appear on x-rays. Treatment is the same: pain relief, close monitoring, and bed rest."

A prescription for high grade pain relief was written and a strange whistle-like device was given to you to take home. The doctor said it would tide you over until Van could head out to the chemist in the morning. She showed you how to administer it, and immediately you felt the calming effects.

Thank yous and farewells, you were ready to make your anticlimactic exit.

The sky had been bright when you entered the emergency department. As you left the hospital, it was dark. The full moon was spectacular, but you were too exhausted to really care. Besides, Larry had posted it to his Instagram story and therefore ruined the surprise of it.

Van walked you to the car slowly, offering to literally carry you every five steps.

You curled up on the back seat, trying to figure out which position hurt your rib the least, and waited as Van folded the many jackets in his car into pillows for you. The one he was wearing became a blanket, then he got into the driver's seat and headed home. Eyes closed, breathing calm, you told him to finish the story.

"Ah… Where were we?"

"In your room. You gave me the record,"

"Right, right. You almost cried, or maybe you did, I don't remember. You were havin' a moment so I took my boots off and sat on the bed. As I did it I was like, what the fuck, you know? Why would I get on the bed? Thought it would freak you out but you just followed me… so… I don't know. Figured we were on the same page or something. And it was just one of them, you know? I just loved you,"

"Nobody said anything when we went back to the lounge room," you mumbled from the back seat.

"Yeah… Think 'cause they got all that out before. But it was a good night. The pizza was good. It was just… good…"

You wanted to reply, to agree, but you were too tired. You managed a small nod, which was inconsequential since Van couldn't see it. He didn't speak again though; he just checked you in the rear view mirror every few minutes and clumsily put The National's CD in the car's stereo.

…

After you swallowed hard and got a hold of yourself, you did what Van had. You kicked your shoes off and laid down on the bed. Two songs played before words were spoken.

"You said Lace said stuff about me?"

"Yeah," Van replied. "She fuckin' loves you,"

"What did she say?"

Van rolled onto his side and used his hands, palms together, as an extra pillow. Again, you copied his action. For a moment, you watched each other, noticed the details of each other, then a loud knock on the door frame made you both jump.

"Uh… Don't know what kind of weird eye contact meditation to Van Morrison you're doin', but the pizza's here," Larry said with a knowing grin. He disappeared down the hallway quickly.

You were both slow to get off the bed, slow to put your shoes on, and slow to join the others in the lounge room. Van put the vinyl by your bag and coat before sitting back on the floor and picking up pizza. He effortlessly entered the argument about pineapple. 

Surprising to you was the fact that nobody asked where you had been, what had taken you both so long. Van had obviously found the menu and taken it to the others before finding you in his studio. Surely they had questions. There wasn't even a quick look from Lacey. Whatever they thought about you and Van, they had accepted as fate.

... 

When your eyes opened again, you were looking up at the streetlight outside your house. The car door opened and Van was there.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Can I carry you now? Nobody around to act all tough in front of," Van said gently. You nodded without a smile. Any energy you may have had was certainly lost in your sleep somehow.

Van disappeared and you listened for familiar sounds. Boots on gravel. Van's boots on the gravel out of the front of his house. Keys. Van's keys unlocking his front door in haste. Night-time silence. Then, in reverse, boots on gravel.

"Alright, come on."

You let him carry you straight from car to bed, being careful to not put pressure on your ribs. While he was gone, closing doors and locking up, you pushed your shoes and pulled your jeans off. The familiar under-clothes dance of taking your bra off without removing your shirt took place, then you were dead still.

Eyes open again, hours had passed. Van was sitting next to you in the flannelette pyjama pants Lacey had bought him as a joke. He didn't care that they were a joke. He loved the little monkeys eating their bananas and the pants fit nice. It was a bonus that you liked the feel of them and continually rubbed your hands up and down his thighs.

The more time you spent at his house, the more your influence was obvious. Van never used to have a television in his room, but he'd fallen in love with bedroom movie marathons and that one laugh of yours that could only be produced by Bob's Burgers.

"Sleeping Beauty, how we feelin'?" You sat up and crawled into his lap, head buried in his waist. "You can have some more of the pain stuff in a minute. Just relax if ya can." You nodded into him then listened to the television. Van was chuckling at reruns of The Simpsons. "If you were one of them, which would you be?" he asked you.

"Lisa,"

"That was quick. Why?"

"I just relate to her. Who'd you be?"

You expected him to say Bart and try to argue the case that he was a bad boy.

"Uh… I dunno… Maggie…"

You laughed and looked up at him. "You relate most to the baby?"

"Yeah… Maybe Santa's Little Helper…"

"Nah, you're like Marge. You look after people and see the good in things, even when there really isn't any good to see. Except you don't put up with shit people like she does,"

"I'd never have married Homor,"

"No. And you wouldn't have raised such unhappy kids," you added. Van nodded.

"Larry's Milhouse," he said slowly, with a smirk.

"Definitely… But probably don't tell him that," you said, but Van's phone had already been pulled from somewhere and Larry was speed dial 1. Van's eyes rolled.

"Voicemail," he said to you and waited to leave his message. "Mate, it's me. Just lettin' ya know you're Milhouse. Y/N and me decided-"

"No!" you yelled. "I did not decide!"

"Love ya, mate. Bye."

Van hung up and put his phone on the bedside table, leaning carefully over you.

"You're a fuck,"

"You seem to be in less pain," he replied, ignoring your comment. "Still want the sticky thing?"

"Yes. The only reason I can talk is because of the sticky thing," you replied deadpan.

"Alright, alright. Don't get sassy with me. Just tryna' help."

Van left the room and you closed your eyes again. The pain relief took away the sharpness of the ache in your chest. It made you sleepy, hazy, dopey. Van snuggled down and made you lie on your injured side; it would help you breathe better. "Google it," he said when you protested.

"I'mmasleep," you slurred out. Van nodded and kept watch.

"I'm sorry you're hurt, love," he whispered.

"S'notyafaul',"

"I know, but 'm still sorry. I'll look after ya though. Don't worry."

A mumbled sound was meant to be 'I love you' but it didn't come out like that at all. Then, with the last spark of energy in you, you said, "Thansforstoreh.”


End file.
